


The Sound of Mist Falling

by glitterburn (orphan_account)



Category: Chì bì | Red Cliff (2008)
Genre: AU, Community: au_bingo, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-05-25
Updated: 2011-05-25
Packaged: 2017-10-19 18:43:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,408
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/204055
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/glitterburn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Zhuge Liang’s ideas are less disturbing than his looks.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Sound of Mist Falling

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the au_bingo prompt ‘1920s’. Properly this is an AU of an AU since Anhui was part of the northern coalition and I am ignoring that fact. Yen Yi Sheng is vaguely based on the gangster Big-Eared Du.

Sun Quan stares at the twisted iron bars in the window and wonders if warlords ever retire. Outside, the mist drapes over the forest, a silent veil. Bamboo ripples in the evening breeze while the solitary larch scarcely bends at all. Birds scatter, blurred and pinned for a moment against the shrouding grey, before they vanish from sight.

A door slams, recalling Sun Quan to his surroundings. The sounds of the party come in snatches through doors opening and closing: scratchy gramophone music, the clink of glassware, laughter, conversation in a jumble of dialects. Loudest of them all is the Shanghainese of the host, Yen Yi Sheng, the foremost drugs runner in the province. Yen has pretensions to government office and surrounds himself with notables from Hangzhou in the hope that some of their meritoriousness might transfer to him the way wet ink smudges from paper to the hands.

The likelihood of Yen becoming chief magistrate or mayor is as likely as Sun Quan reclaiming his land and ruling it as his forefathers had done in ancient times. But Sun Quan keeps up the pretence of victory, just as Yen builds on his dreams of respectability. Empty hope hurts no one in Sun Quan’s opinion, though doubtless many of the sages whose wisdom adorn the hundreds of books in Yen’s library would disagree.

Footsteps sound, unerring in their direction. A moment later, the door swings open. Sun Quan turns from the window to see a man his own age, fine-featured and soft-eyed with surprise. He wears a Western suit of white linen with a silk shirt of palest grey. He would almost blend in amongst the English and the French who’ve carved out little enclaves on the mountain the same way they’d carved out their concessions in Shanghai. Almost: for despite the Westerners’ love for Moganshan, their affection does not extend to the people who inhabit it year-long.

“Forgive me,” the man says. “I was unaware that any of Master Yen’s guests shared my taste in literature.”

Sun Quan smiles politely. “It was peace I sought, not knowledge.”

“Through knowledge one may find peace.” The man speaks with the precise rolling accent of the north-east. He comes into the room and runs a finger along the nearest bookshelf. “I don’t suppose our host enjoys either quality.”

The books, as Sun Quan had noticed earlier, are warped and mildewed from humidity and lack of use.

Caution dictates Sun Quan’s response. “Do you know him well?”

“Well enough.” Pulling out a book at random, the man retreats to sit in a leather armchair and brushes powdery grey mould from the pages.

It isn’t really an answer. Sun Quan has survived this far by playing it safe, by acting under advisement. His advisers are far from him now; some still in Anhui, some gone to Nanjing, while others lie dead. He’s spent his life in wariness, watchfulness, reacting rather than acting. Old habits are hard to break, but old habits have also saved his skin too many times for him to consider ignoring them now.

Conscious of the silence settling in the room, aware that he could be talking to Yen’s most trusted lieutenant, Sun Quan says, “I don’t know him at all, save by reputation.”

The man glances up briefly. “Reputation is everything here. The Westerners with their committees to justify the purchase of land not theirs to buy; the Shanghainese with their peacocks and tigers and Beijing Opera mistresses... they all come on the basis of reputation, intent on improving their own. Most will be disappointed; but then, reputation is something hard-won.”

Sun Quan turns his back to the window and leans against the black marble sill. “Spoken like a man who has made a name for himself.”

A fleeting smile. “Made and lost it.”

The words are delivered in so charming a manner that Sun Quan smiles in response. “And what is your name?”

The humour fades from the man’s face, his expression closing. “Zhuge Liang.”

“Zhuge Liang?” Sun Quan doesn’t mean to sound so shocked. Zhuge Liang—scholar, diplomat, poet—a renowned intellectual expelled from his post at the University of Beijing. The university has a reputation for producing radical thinkers, but Zhuge Liang made the fatal mistake of speaking out against Beijing’s government, a coalition of northern warlords. The news caused a stir in the south, not least because it seemed to prove that the coalition would stop at nothing to impose their beliefs and stamp their authority upon their own people.

“You’ve heard of me.” Zhuge Liang’s voice is tight, filled with ambiguity.

“Yes.” Sun Quan stares. His surprise has little to do with meeting a famous intellectual in the summer villa of a gangster and more to do with the fact that he’d assumed Zhuge Liang to be a venerable old man. Old and white-haired and plain, not young and vital and attractive, all sharp lines and brightness softened with the ease that comes of a man knowing himself and his capabilities.

Not that Sun Quan has any intention of revealing the cause of his startled reaction. He puts his hands on the window sill, the black marble cold against his palms, the edge pressing into his flesh. “Yes, of course I’ve heard of you, Master Zhuge. Your works are much admired.”

An almost-smile brushes Zhuge Liang’s lips. His eyes are dark, mocking. “My political works or my military treatises?”

“Both.” Sun Quan has the impression that Zhuge Liang is amused in a cynical way. It makes him defensive, and in response he continues, “Though it is hard to imagine a country ruled by the paragons you envision. Transparency and accountability in government is a dangerous ideal.”

Zhuge Liang arches his eyebrows. “You’ve been spending too much time amongst corrupt officials, my friend. Men such as our host cloud the mind through more than the opium they sell.”

“I agree, but—”

“But nothing.” Zhuge Liang closes his book with a snap. “In the past it was easier. A corrupt court could be dealt with by the people. A corrupt Emperor could be overthrown. These days there is no unity, only fragmentation. How can we bring together the many? By being transparent and honest about our hopes and fears.”

Sun Quan laughs. “That’s impossible.”

“It isn’t. It’s been done before. Three kingdoms became one; five kingdoms became one; twelve kingdoms became one. Now we have... I don’t know how many disparate elements are at large in China, but we need one, just one, to rise to the top and speak honestly—”

“You’re a dreamer.”

Zhuge Liang’s eyes spark. “And you are quick to dismiss an idea.”

“An ideal,” Sun Quan corrects.

A slow smile. “You think I’m a fool.”

Sun Quan shakes his head. “No. Just misguided.” He pushes away from the window and walks around the room, tracing a finger along the bookshelves as Zhuge Liang did earlier. “No politician or general is going to be honest with the people he rules. He might promise it to gain power, but once he holds it, he will lie and deceive, because his people will lie to him and deceive him. Honesty is for the weak. Prophets and sages might praise it, and you can laud it all you like, but if a leader is transparent, no one will trust him. Be honest, and you open yourself to criticism.”

“That can make a man strong,” Zhuge Liang says.

“It makes him weaker.” Sun Quan comes to the end of a bookshelf and moves to another, crossing the room to walk behind Zhuge Liang. “He begins to rely on it, tries to please one person, then two, then several, then all. How can a leader make a decision when he has to respond to so much advice, so much criticism? It makes a strong man weak.”

Zhuge Liang turns in his seat, his gaze demanding. “Does it make a weak man strong?”

Sun Quan is flustered beneath the weight of that gaze, aware that he’s said too much, conscious of a nervous flutter in the pit of his stomach. “Perhaps. I don’t know.”

“I think it does.” Zhuge Liang leans forward, watching him return to take up his position at the window. “Often criticism is nothing more than an expression of belief. Of hope. A weak man needs both to become strong.”

“I don’t disagree with that, but...” Sun Quan lets his words slide. He looks out of the window at the mist, so thick and heavy now that it blots out the bamboo and the larch. He wonders if it could make the approaching night fade the same way. Pulling his attention back into the room, he looks at Zhuge Liang. Another flutter, but not nerves this time. He finds it hard to argue with Zhuge Liang. He’s always found it hard to argue with intellectuals. It’s too easy for them to tie him in knots. Theory appeals to him, but he’s never had an adviser who could marry theory and practicality in a way that brought useful results.

Zhuge Liang’s ideas are less disturbing than his looks. Sun Quan tries to focus on their discussion, but finds his thoughts spiralling, led astray by the curve of Zhuge Liang’s mouth, the moth-whisper of his eyelashes, the pale skin at his nape. Afraid of where such thoughts might lead, Sun Quan changes the subject. “Anyway, you are a hypocrite, Master Zhuge, for encouraging honesty and transparency in government when your military stratagems list nothing but ruses and tricks. These are not honest techniques.”

“No, but they work.” Leaning back now, Zhuge Liang smiles again, unhurried, unruffled. “Honesty and dishonesty are not incompatible. I believe both serve a purpose in ruling a country, but the time comes when a man must be honest with himself, and when he reaches that moment, he will be a true leader, and he should share his experience—his knowledge, his honesty—with his people.”

“Through dishonesty comes honesty.” Sun Quan snorts and swings away, fixing his gaze on the creep of the mist.

“Simply put, yes.”

Sun Quan gives a short laugh, glancing back at him. “You northerners see things in interesting ways. Even your compromises are extreme.”

“I assure you there is nothing extreme about me.” Zhuge Liang’s eyes gleam.

Caught, Sun Quan says, “I find that hard to believe.”

Zhuge Liang tilts his head, his smile teasing. “Are you criticising me?”

“Perhaps I’m merely telling you I have hope.” Sun Quan smiles in response, the flutter back in his belly. How long since he’s flirted like this? Too long—and though this is dangerous, it’s also safe, which is perhaps why he’s doing it.

Zhuge Liang’s lashes drop, veiling the expression in his eyes, then he glances up, gives Sun Quan a direct, soul-stripping look. “Ah, but what do you hope for?”

Sun Quan stares, losing the thread of their banter, aware only of the sudden thud of his heart, of the possibility flooding his veins, of the sudden tension in the room.

Footsteps sound outside, heavy and determined, and the door opens. Their host Yen Yi Sheng comes in, a glass of cognac in one hand. He looks at them both, gaze narrowing for a moment before he laughs. “What are you doing, hiding away here? Plotting ways to reinstate Sun Quan in Anhui?”

Zhuge Liang darts a look at Sun Quan, lips parting, but then he hides his surprise and glances down at the book in his lap. “We were speaking of Confucius’ teachings.”

“Ah, now.” The fat chuckles fade and Yi Sheng turns serious, touches his chest over his heart. “That is not a laughing matter.” He pauses, and silence drifts like mist around the room, dank and chill.

Yi Sheng takes a sip of cognac and looks at Sun Quan. “Come and join us. The girls will arrive soon.” He pats Zhuge Liang’s shoulder, a casual gesture. Then he squeezes, fingers digging in. “I know you’re not interested in such diversions, Master Zhuge. You’re welcome to stay in here as long as you please.”

“Your books are in a shocking state of decay,” Zhuge Liang says mildly.

“What need do I have of them? If I want to know anything, I ask you.” Yi Sheng laughs again, giving Zhuge Liang’s shoulder another squeeze. A flicker of discomfort crosses Zhuge Liang’s face. Yi Sheng doesn’t notice and addresses Sun Quan. “The advantage of having a tame intellectual as a neighbour. What would a mountain be without a hermit?”

He releases Zhuge Liang and wanders off, leaving the door open as a subtle command for Sun Quan to follow. Music and laughter come into the room. Shadows cast by oil lamps flit greasily.

Sun Quan lingers. He wants to stay, but can’t afford to snub his host.

“I will not keep you here,” Zhuge Liang says.

“I would stay, if I could.”

They look at one another. Zhuge Liang smiles, then transfers his attention to the book. He opens it at random, turns back a few pages, and begins to read. The self-conscious lines of his face soften as he absorbs himself in the contents of the book, and Sun Quan knows he’s dismissed, if not forgotten.

He hesitates a moment longer, then goes to join the party. As he leaves, he closes the door behind him.

* * *

Morning dawns dull and grey. Sun Quan wakes early and alone. He lies beneath sheets damp with humidity and feels perspiration slide down his forehead. The silence is absolute, the sound of mist falling. He gets out of bed and goes to the window, drawing the curtains to see ruffles of cloud sweeping across the bamboo.

His suitcase is open nearby. Sun Quan stirs a hand through it, rejecting yesterday’s traditional clothes in favour of a Western-style suit. Dark blue, some kind of lightweight fabric. He’d bought it second-hand and had it altered to fit in a shop in the International Settlement. Yen Yi Sheng patronises the same tailor. Sun Quan’s suit originally belonged to Yi Sheng. One of his mistresses had sent it back, declaring it ugly.

Sun Quan dresses with care. He smoothes down the suit, tightens the knot of his tie, polishes the mist from his cufflinks. He combs his hair, ensuring the lines drawn by the comb’s teeth are perfectly parallel. Then he shuts the suitcase and leaves the room.

The doors are all closed on the top floor. He goes downstairs, his footsteps echoing. Small noises alert him to the presence of others, and he moves from room to room, stepping over the debris of the party, until he finds two silent servants in the process of cleaning up. They look at him without curiosity. One offers to make him breakfast. Sun Quan shakes his head and asks instead for directions.

Outside, the stone flags of the pathways are drenched. The world smells green, of damp earth. Mist slides between the trees; moisture coats the leaves of an orange tree and drips from the pale fruit. Shrubs lean across the path and soak his trouser legs with water. He turns onto the metalled track and heads up the hill. Around him the forest breathes and shakes, the fog like ghosts, forming and eddying and vanishing.

The chill of the morning is misleading. Sun Quan walks five minutes and feels too hot. His hair falls forward, flopping into his eyes, and he pushes it back with an impatient gesture. It tumbles again and he blows at it, puffing up a few strands. The incline becomes steeper. He saves his breath, leaning into the angle of the hill, walking with purpose.

The wind rustles through the trees. Sun Quan looks up as the first fat drops of rain fall. He stops, measuring distances, wondering if he should turn back, then continues on his way, walking faster. His breath comes sharp and short and he breaks into a run as the rain becomes a downpour. The rain falls warm against his skin, but the intensity of it is almost painful.

Ahead the road bends close around a house, basic and built of rough stone, the property backing onto a low cliff. Doors and shutters are painted a dull bottle green. Sun Quan takes refuge beneath the porch, a concrete addition to the house. Beside the door is a woodpile, its scent homely, inviting, suggesting dry warmth. He nudges a piece of fallen wood back into place and knocks on the door.

When no one answers, he ventures out into the rain again, taps on the two windows at the front of the house, then bangs on the side door. Still nothing. He goes to the next window and leans against the glass, putting his hands around his eyes to peer inside. He sees only darkness, and retreats to the porch to wait. He knocks on the front door a second time, paces the area of the porch, looks up and down the road.

The rain worsens, drumming on the tiles, bouncing from the porch roof, pock-marking the surface of the road. Sun Quan rocks on his heels, impatient. He walks the half circle around the house once more, knocking on doors and windows. Water spills across the track, following a route worn into the earth by previous storms. He watches it run silver, a miniature river, then notices the undergrowth on the other side of the road.

Sun Quan walks across the track, aware of the rain soaking into his suit, through his suit to his shirt, down to his skin. It hardly matters. He’s going to get drenched no matter what he does. He won’t be the only one: the servants said that Zhuge Liang often goes out walking, regardless of the weather. Sun Quan studies the bowed ferns, the disturbed leaves, the fallen petals, and then he steps into the forest to follow a trail barely there.

The hill slopes away from the road, camellias and ferns and brambles spreading across the forest floor. He places his feet carefully at first, sliding on mulch and dead leaves, arms out to catch himself, tapping his hands against pine trees with twisted trunks. Lower down he slip-slides through bamboo, the trailing leaves brushing his face, the spray of dislodged water different to the feel of the rain. The smell of wet earth permeates everything.

Sun Quan blinks the rain from his eyes. His clothes stick to his body, slowing his reactions even as his downward plunge speeds his pace. The rain roars around him, his heart beating with wild excitement. He trips, almost falls, begins to run down the hill. He laughs, the sound shattering the noise of the rain.

He doesn’t know where he’s going, doesn’t care if he gets lost. He skids through the mulch, gouging out a track, covering his shoes with mud. His jacket slaps against his body, his cufflinks glinting gold in the watery light as he stretches out his arms, ready to catch himself if he falls. A tangle of shrubs slows his headlong rush, and Sun Quan hangs against a tree to catch his breath, sanity returning.

Glancing behind him, he sees the route he’s taken through the forest. The mist hides the road. He laughs again, certain he can find his way back. Turning, he picks through the shrubs and discovers a proper stone-flagged path cutting across the hillside. He sets foot on it, looks in both directions for guidance, then goes right.

He follows the path, wet stone edged with green moss, and ducks beneath a large spider web stretched across the way. A spider, slender, red-backed, crouches in the centre, legs tucked against its body. The trees around it tremble, raining water droplets. Sun Quan shivers as the droplets find their way down the side of his neck. The euphoria is wearing off; the freedom of racing down the hill into the unknown now seems ridiculous rather than exciting. He feels chilled and uncomfortable; his shoes squelch with each step and ooze prints of watery mud, and his suit alternately clings and releases like cold hands.

The mist rolls back as he emerges from the overhanging trees. He hears running water. To the left of the path, the vegetation drops away, treetops vanishing into the cloud. Rocks rear up to his right, carved with lichen-clad verses of poetry, some with a single character cut into their face, the lines of the calligraphy filled with red paint. The path twists around, becomes a short flight of steps, and leads to a pavilion.

Inside the pavilion stands Zhuge Liang—motionless, pale as the mist weaving around him, no longer wearing a suit but a changshan the colour of the clouded mountain. His eyes are wide and dark. Against his chest he holds a fan made of striped feathers. He stares at Sun Quan in silence.

Suddenly nervous, the bubble of euphoria coming back, Sun Quan feels a lick of anticipation. He goes closer, ignoring the squish of his shoes and the wet restriction of his clothing. He goes closer, out from the canopy of trees and into the rain. Water bounces from the poem-strewn rocks, trickles across the path. He inhales the scent of bruised camellia leaves and takes the steps two at a time. His heart is pounding as he enters the pavilion. The sound of the rain deadens, hushes, replaced by the gentle pattering on the roof tiles.

Sun Quan gazes at Zhuge Liang, noting the silver mist in his hair, the damp cling of his silks, the flare of attraction in his brilliant eyes. The feathers on his fan—hawk’s feathers, a hawk’s wing, Sun Quan realises now—quiver, giving silent response.

Breathless, feeling both exhausted and exhilarated, Sun Quan goes closer still. “I was looking for you.”

Zhuge Liang’s eyes shine. He smiles.

* * *

The interior of the cottage is dark, full of shadows and silence. The rain hammers on the roof, the sound loud, percussive. Cold air follows them inside, then Zhuge Liang puts his hand to Sun Quan’s face and draws him closer. They don’t speak; haven’t spoken since those few words Sun Quan uttered at the pavilion. On the way back up the hill, he rehearsed a dozen things to say, a dozen innocent ways of starting a conversation, but it seems there’s no need for speech.

Sun Quan wonders when Zhuge Liang decided on this, whether it was inevitable or if it’s part of some elaborate game, but he can think of no reason why Zhuge Liang would need to pretend, and so he thinks it must be fate. Sun Quan knows his indecision must show in his kisses. His reticence to give himself completely has always been his downfall with lovers before. Perhaps now, here, he can lose himself. The rain will drown his thoughts, his misgivings.

Zhuge Liang pulls him from the door, negotiating the darkness with ease. Dim light patterns the wall, stripes the ceiling. Beneath his feet, Sun Quan feels the softness of a rug. He steps away, not wanting his wet clothes to drip over it, but Zhuge Liang murmurs a laugh. They kiss again, warmth kindling through the chill of their bodies. Sun Quan takes the hawk’s wing fan and casts it aside. He puts a hand on Zhuge Liang’s hip, feels skin through sodden silk. He rubs his hand back and forth, a tentative exploration, then slides it back to grasp firm flesh, forcing Zhuge Liang closer.

They kiss until the warmth sparks and draws. Zhuge Liang’s mouth is hot, his lips slicked first with rain and then their saliva. He sighs surrender against Sun Quan; his touches speak of desire. He runs his fingers beneath Sun Quan’s suit jacket, growing bold with need. Sun Quan permits it, encourages it, shrugging off his jacket. It drops to the floor with a wet sound. He reaches for Zhuge Liang, pulls at drenched silk. They sway together, haste making them clumsy, excitement sharpening their breaths.

Zhuge Liang goes down on his knees, buries his face against Sun Quan’s thighs. There’s enough light to see the gleam of Zhuge Liang’s wet hair. Sun Quan inhales, knots his fingers in that hair, and tugs upwards. It’s a demand, but Zhuge Liang offered, and Sun Quan wants it. He holds his breath, trembling, as Zhuge Liang unbuttons damp cloth, as the sodden weight of fabric crumples to his feet. He shivers at the whisper of breath across bare skin.

Zhuge Liang nuzzles close. His nose is cold, his cheek is colder; rain runs down his face, drips from the ends of his hair. Sun Quan chokes on a gasp, surprised that he can differentiate layers of cold, and then he closes his eyes. Zhuge Liang’s mouth is hot, hotter than before, this kiss no less hungry than the others. Sun Quan fights it for a moment, afraid of a trap, afraid of losing his emotions, but it’s dark, they’re caught by the rain, confined within a cloud, an illusion, and he can let go.

Pleasure flows through him. He abandons all other thoughts and focuses, closes his mind to anything but the rush of excitement and anticipation. Mindlessly he strokes through Zhuge Liang’s hair, caressing, clutching, pretending he controls the pace when he knows he controls nothing at all. Sun Quan sinks into wet heat, feels tongue and teeth, swings from feeling powerful to helpless and back again.

Orgasm builds, threatens, and Zhuge Liang pulls away, hands busy with the buttons on Sun Quan’s shirt. He presses open-mouthed kisses to Sun Quan’s cold skin, raising goosebumps. The kisses slide, wet, warm, and in silence he urges Sun Quan to kneel in front of him, to lie on the softness of the rug with him.

Sun Quan hooks a leg over Zhuge Liang, trying to turn him. He knows how this goes from here. This is what he’s good at, what he’s accustomed to, with his lovers. He’s a warlord, a general. For all the theory that goes before, his decisions are always made in the heat of the moment. When it’s necessary, he always takes control.

Zhuge Liang resists, gently but firmly. He kisses Sun Quan, kisses that make his head spin, that rob him of breath, that melt his resolve into a new shape. He lets Zhuge Liang remodel him, allows their bodies to realign on the rug, wet clothes and cold floorboards either side of them. It’s only when he feels Zhuge Liang’s slick fingers at his entrance, working inside him, that Sun Quan realises he’s accepted a change in role.

As he’s breached, he murmurs in surprise. Zhuge Liang silences him with more kisses. The startled burn of discomfort fades, becomes pleasure, becomes darkness and rain and clouds.

* * *

Sometime later, while Sun Quan lies on the rug on his side covered with a woollen blanket that smells of wood-smoke and dried roses, Zhuge Liang lights the fire, hangs a battered tin kettle over it, and spreads out their clothes to dry. He wears a loose robe, unbelted, the outline of his body visible through the white silk when the flames crackle across the kindling and eat at the wood. Light brings detail to the house, and Sun Quan looks around at the worn old furniture, the clock on the dresser, the books and piles of correspondence and writing.

The rain continues, the sound lulling. The firelight makes the room shrink, sets the warmth within against the darkness of the mist outside. The house is a sanctuary, and Zhuge Liang its guardian.

Zhuge Liang opens a tin and adds a pinch of tea to two cups. He sits back and hugs his knees, gives Sun Quan a smile. “You don’t look like a warlord.”

Sun Quan is amused. “You don’t look like a famous scholar.” He pauses. “Would you have talked to me if you’d known?”

The kettle hisses. Zhuge Liang turns his head to check it. “I can be polite. Besides, our conversation was... illuminating. I’ve never met a warlord as cautious as you.”

“Indecisive, you mean.” Sun Quan chuckles. “I’m not sure I can claim the title ‘warlord’. Anhui is no longer under my control.”

“Too much criticism?”

“Something like that. Too much advice. Too much theory.” He shrugs. “Too many warlords.”

The kettle whistles as the water comes to the boil. Zhuge Liang takes it from the fire, lets the heat lose its edge before he pours it over the tea. He swirls the cups, agitates the leaves, then offers it out. “Mao Feng tea.”

“To remind me of home?” Sun Quan takes it anyway. He’s never pretended to be a connoisseur. He takes a sip. It’s too hot, and the heat burns his fingertips through the porcelain. He didn’t realise his hands were still so cold.

Zhuge Liang holds his tea cradled between both hands. A branch in the fire cracks, collapses, sending up a flare of sparks.

“I tried to be a transparent ruler,” Sun Quan continues. “I tried to be honest. It didn’t work.” He stares into his cup. “I allowed a railway line into Hefei. Westerners had come into the province, suggesting alliances, offering money and men to build the railway. They wanted our coal. My advisers couldn’t agree on anything, so I followed my heart and refused. But I knew the railway could be good for the city, so I arranged for its construction. Me, not the Westerners. Yet half of my advisers and many of my people thought I was concealing the truth. They thought I was lying to them, thought I’d done a secret deal with the Westerners. They thought, since I was deceitful, they could deceive me in return. They invited in the armies of the northern coalition, and now I am a warlord no more.”

Zhuge Liang sit silent for a while, then asks, quietly, “Why did you come here?”

Sun Quan sighs. “I went to Shanghai first. I knew people there, had contacts, money, something of a reputation to trade upon. But Shanghai is not real. It’s...”

“An illusion,” Zhuge Liang says. “I know.”

“Then reality found me, and Shanghai was no longer safe but full of people willing to betray me. I was still seen as a threat. Funny, really. I was toothless, yet they considered me dangerous.” Sun Quan tries his tea again. “My lieutenant, Zhou Yu, advised me to go to Hong Kong. I decided to come here instead, at the invitation of Yen Yi Sheng. When he returns to Shanghai, I will stay.”

Zhuge Liang cocks his head to one side. “You trust him?”

“Not at all. He invited me because of my reputation. It enhances his own to have a warlord dependent upon him. Doubtless he’ll forget about me soon. Men like him see no long-term gain in aiding the northern coalition. For now, I’m just an amusement and he can boast of his magnanimity. As soon as my reputation fades, so will his interest.”

“It’s the same with me.” Zhuge Liang puts down his cup. “Yi Sheng forgets me little by little each time he visits. One day he will only think of me as the hermit in the mountain, rather than Zhuge Liang the Beijing scholar. I look forward to that day.”

Sun Quan finishes his tea. “We are both exiles.”

“Hardly.” Zhuge Liang smiles. “As long as you carry something of your home with you, exile doesn’t exist. A man is his own kingdom, and escape is not defeat. While you still breathe, while you still remember, you still hold Anhui.”

“Perhaps.” Sun Quan falls silent, thinking. “It is something to hope for, anyway. To believe in.”

“Sometimes that’s all we can do. That’s all that’s needed.”

They sit in silence and watch the flames, wrapped in warmth and understanding. At length their clothes are dry enough, and Sun Quan dresses, flinching from the heat of the fabric against his skin. He hesitates before he leaves, thanks his host for the tea, almost thanks him for other things, but decides that would be too presumptuous.

Zhuge Liang calls him back before he reaches the door. Sun Quan turns, looks at the glow of firelight on Zhuge Liang’s skin, over his silks, looks at the gleam in his brilliant eyes.

“My lord,” Zhuge Liang says, “visit me again.”

Sun Quan smiles. He opens the door. Outside, the mist has lifted.


End file.
